I Know Nothing
by btch sprinkles
Summary: Mycroft has always known his path. He's walked it, no matter what. He's made mistakes, and he lives with secrets. There's a reason Mycroft watched Sherlock in secret. There's a reason for his constant concern, and his absolute fear of what might happen to the young detective. Mycroft lives in a world where he must pretend that he knows nothing. SSxJW MHxGL


**A/N: I don't know where I got this idea from. It just sort of popped into my head and even though my plate is so damn full, I couldn't concentrate until I wrote this out. I'm not sure if there's any more fic like this out there, but feel free to link me or let me know because I'd definitely love to read some. As usual, hope you enjoy!**

Even from a young age, Mycroft knew he wasn't an attractive fellow. He'd grown up like his father, rotund, receding hairline by the time he was twelve. His features were pointed; his thin face a stark contrast to his round belly and chubby arms. His eyes were small and beady, his skin sallow and hair the color of dirty dishwater.

He was a spoiled child, Mycroft. He was too smart for his own good, probably the only thing he'd gotten from his mother who was tall, thin, curls a fierce black even when his father had gone almost completely grey. Her wide, fiercely blue-green eyes stared at everything, drinking it in, inspecting, deducing. The woman had never been meant to be a housewife, or a mother.

His father, a doctor, had paid his way through school. He was never quite good at what he did, and his reputation stank worse than the deep recesses of the London tube. Mycroft never knew what had brought their parents together in marriage. From the fact that at fifteen he was still an only child, he suspected it wasn't love.

"I'm taking you to Amsterdam with me this weekend," his father said the night of Mycroft's eighteenth birthday. "I have a conference there on pharmaceuticals and I think your mum could use some time alone."

Mycroft was perplexed by that statement. His presence never impeded his mother's ability to have alone time. Mycroft, ever the genius, ever the boy with high aspirations and fantastic goals, was never in his mother's way. Yet Mycroft was a good, well-behaved teen and he didn't disobey his father. Ever. He was going to be a politician someday. Mycroft thought he might rule the world someday. He was certainly smart enough to do so. He didn't want a rebellious, teenage phase to destroy that reputation before he could plot his life's course.

The flight to Amsterdam was short, uncomfortable because though Mycroft would never say so, he was petrified of flying. Mycroft disliked anything he couldn't take charge of, and he'd yet to take flying lessons. The landing was rough, it was a particularly stormy summer over the whole of Europe, and when they disembarked the jet, wind whipped their faces as they crossed the landing of the private airfield.

A car was waiting for them to take them to their hotel. Mycroft knew they had money, knew it was from his mother's family, but from time to time he tried to fathom just how much. Enough for a private jet and a car wherever they went. Enough to put them up in the most expensive suite in the most expensive hotel in the entire city. Mycroft may have been _used_ to such luxuries, but he was smart enough to be constantly aware of them.

Mycroft busied himself with his studies. It was the summer holidays, but he wasn't about to fall behind. He was set to begin his post-graduate University studies soon. He was too smart for any sort of secondary schooling, but he had to tear through his final exams first, and while he was a genius, he didn't want to take any chances.

It was well past dark and well past dinner when Bernard Holmes came through the door, his fat face nearly purple, wheezing heavily. Mycroft looked on at his father in disgust, wondering if that would be him someday. He stared down at his ever-increasing stomach and resolved to make a change immediately.

"We're going out to eat," Bernard said.

_Tomorrow_, Mycroft amended as he fetched his coat and followed his father to the lift. He expected they would be dining in the hotel's over-priced restaurant with their French cooking, rich sauces, and endless trays of puddings that Mycroft had been eyeing every time they walked through the lobby.

Bernard hired a cab instead, and before long they were walking into a smoky, dark pub with no windows and deep red lights. There were big round tables, a bar, and several too-used sofas. There were men there, and there were women, and Mycroft eyed them all.

He was a virgin, Mycroft, the idea of human sexuality below what he considered to be interesting or necessary. But he'd stolen a few glances from time to time, sometimes at women, but mostly men. Mycroft liked the rough form of men, bulky and square, sometimes tall and thin, but never soft and breakable. Even his mother, the strongest woman he knew, seemed frail most of the time.

"Menu," his father said, handing him a list. There were names on it, instead of food, and Mycroft found himself disappointed. "Pick one. Go with something exotic."

Clara. He spotted the name right away and blurted it out to the woman in the red dress waiting for them to choose. He didn't even really mean to pick a woman, but the name just screamed out to him, and she nodded, smirking a little.

Five minutes later his father was off in some other room and Mycroft was sitting on a barstool looking at a woman who was tall, thin, heavy black curls cascading down her back. Her eyes were like his mother's. fiercely green with flecks of blue in them. She was wearing a dress, simple and black, hugging every curve.

She took him to the back room and took her clothes off. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, but she showed him politely, yet firmly. He thought maybe he should use a condom and said as much, feeling the burn of humiliation course through him when she laughed at him.

He had her, of course, as soon as he felt her mouth on him; he knew there was no turning back. He thought maybe he'd just use her mouth like that, and think of the tall blonde boy in his physics class, but before long he was lying on her and pushing in and out, roughly, thinking that he liked the sensation, but it just wasn't rough enough.

But it was enough to get him off and he spilled inside of her. She cleaned him up, and then herself, and helped him get dressed. She had barely said a word to him, but she kissed him on the forehead before she left.

He thought he might feel different now that he wasn't a virgin, but all he really felt was a little out of breath, sweaty, in need of a shower, and still so damn hungry. He didn't protest when his father chose Chinese take-away to take up to the hotel room when he was finished.

Bernard didn't say anything to Mycroft about the experience; the idea that they'd keep this from his mother was clear. He looked at Mycroft differently now, though. Perhaps with respect? Maybe just a little pity. Mycroft assumed that his father was only able to have sex with these women, as his wife had clearly finished with him, and Mycroft pitied his father right back.

He resolved to go on a diet. Right after that take-away.

It was an entire year from the incident when the knock came at the door. Mycroft, again on summer holidays, was sitting in the front room. He was nineteen that day; he'd dropped three stone, and had just finished shopping for a new wardrobe after his mother insisted.

She looked at him more, though with every bit of weight that dropped Mycroft was reminded that he would always be a little bit ugly. He had a boyfriend now, a secret one, but he liked him, and the boy seemed to like him back. He wasn't as smart as Mycroft, but that was okay. No one was, really.

He was six chapters into a new book on astrophysics when the knocker's harsh sounds coursed through the front room. After a moment, when he heard no one rushing to the door, Mycroft rose with a sigh and opened it.

He barely recognized the woman standing there. Her hair was the same, black and curly, her eyes fierce. But she was fatter, and she was dressed in jeans and a heavy coat. Hanging off of her crooked arm was a baby carrier with a small infant fast asleep. The infant was impossibly pale, and a small thatch of black hair on the top of his head matched that of his mother's.

The woman at the door smiled, her teeth yellow and crooked. Mycroft hadn't remembered that about her, but he did remember those lips around his cock. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I've come about this," she said, and it was the first time Mycroft realized she wasn't British.

There was a thudding noise across the wooden floor, and after a moment, Bernard appeared, his beady eyes narrow. "Can we help you, miss?"

"Take this or give me money," she said, shaking the carrier at Bernard, giving the infant a little start.

Bernard frowned, but only for a moment. His sharp intake of breath signaled that he understood the situation and he looked at his son, his eyes full of panic. "Your mother's out, but she's going to be back soon."

Mycroft was too smart for his own good. He swallowed, feeling his light lunch threatening to come back up. "How did you find us?"

"We keep records," she said. "Let me in."

Mycroft desperately wanted to shut the door, shut her out, but Bernard let her in and they went into the sitting room. The baby was fat, Mycroft noticed, but properly fat, not like him. It smelled, its pale face dirty and he was fed but obviously not cared for.

"I'm going to tell my wife that this child is mine," Bernard said swiftly, fetching his book of cheques. "No mention of my son, are we clear?"

She nodded, eyeing the piece of paper that he was about to scribble on. "I am moving to Canada," she said. "You won't hear from me again."

Bernard turned to Mycroft. "Are we clear on this?"

Mycroft hadn't taken his eyes off the infant since Clara had walked in. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," she said. "I called him Nikolas, but you will give him new name," she said with a wave of her hand.

Mycroft swallowed thickly and looked up at his father. "What am I going to do?"

"This never happened," his father insisted, punctuating every word fiercely. "Are we clear?"

"We're… _you're_… going to keep him?"

Bernard sighed. "If we let this woman here take the baby, she could come back for more." He tore the cheque and handed it to her. She stared down at the numbers, her eyebrows going up, and then she folded it, stuffing it into her bra.

Mycroft's head was spinning, and when his mother walked through the door, all hell broke loose. There was shouting and accusations. Mycroft escaped upstairs and he could hear the infant wailing for attention. Clara was speaking in rapid Russian, and after an hour and ten minutes, the noise stopped, the front door slammed, and above the buzzing silence, Mycroft could hear the continued whimpers of the child.

He was a father. No. No, he couldn't think like that, because he was in no way a father. He was a nineteen year old gay man with a boyfriend studying fiercely to one day take over the British government. He was not a parent. He would never be a parent.

Venturing downstairs, Mycroft went into the lounge where his mother sat on the sofa, a glass of rich burgundy wine in her hand. Her eyes were narrow as Mycroft sat on the edge of the sofa. The child seat was on the floor, but the baby was missing. His father was standing with his back to the room, a glass of absinthe and ice in his hand.

"Where is the baby?"

"I've hired an emergency nanny," Caroline Holmes said quietly. "She's bathing, dressing and feeding it."

"Him," Mycroft corrected absently.

Caroline's eyes narrowed. "Did you and your father honestly think you could lie to me?"

Still in shock, Mycroft glanced up at her with blurry eyes. "I'm not quite sure."

Quicker than Mycroft had ever seen a human move, his mother was on her feet and standing in front of him. She slapped him once, open palm, the noise echoing harshly through the room. Mycroft sucked in his breath, but he didn't flinch or cry out. He deserved that at the very least.

"You're not throwing your life away over some pathetic tryst with a prostitute, do you understand me?" she asked, her voice a low hiss.

Mycroft nodded his head up and down once.

"This child is not yours," she said, crossing the room to sit back down. "Sherlock, we've decided. After my father. Pray that the thing upstairs is a smart as you, Mycroft, and that it doesn't make me regret not drowning it and taking care of our problems."

Mycroft went green, and though the idea of a God was absurd, he said a small prayer in the back of his mind. "Forgive me, mother," he said.

"You're beyond my forgiveness," she replied quietly, but for the first time there was a hint of pity in her voice. "You have a grand life ahead of you, my son, and I fear that this child is going to take over your life one day, and ruin you."

He grew fast, tall like Mycroft, but beautiful unlike him. Mycroft wondered if it was fate or coincidence that Clara had looked enough like his mother that no one questioned Sherlock's parentage. Well, they questioned the father in secret, but Mycroft suspected they would.

By two, Mycroft knew the boy was going to be smarter than him, and by four, Mycroft was terrified of Sherlock. Mycroft had slipped into the role of big brother easily, his every desire to forget who the child actually was to him. While he moved on with his life, making great strides in the government, Sherlock grew up angry and confused, too smart for the world, and he hated his parents.

Mycroft didn't think of the boy until he stood over him in the hospital as Sherlock trembled in the bed, suffering an overdose of cocaine to the point where the doctors weren't sure he was going to make it out alive. He did though; Sherlock survived it only to repeat the same thing six more times.

"No," Lestrade said, crossing his arms. Mycroft stood in the back of Lestrade's office, arms crossed, staring at the drawn blinds. He stared down at his feet, happy his belly was small enough to see them, and he listened to Lestrade rant. "I've picked that boy up more times than I can count. Prostitution, Mycroft. Drugs. Petty theft. I'm not going to bloody hire him."

"He's solved sixteen of your unsolved cases," Mycroft reminded him. "Sixteen."

Lestrade's face went red, a sharp contrast to his iron-grey hair. Mycroft briefly wondered if Lestrade had ever had hair that wasn't grey. "That don't matter when he's at constant risk of relapsing."

"He's fifteen months sober," Mycroft said with a shrug. "He doesn't know I've been keeping watch on him, but I think he's tired of trying to make my parents pay for bringing him into the world now that they're dead."

Lestrade rubbed his face with his hands tiredly, giving his head a shake. "There's no way I can hire him, Mycroft. Legally, my hands are tied."

"So don't make it official. Just… call on him. Pay him under the table. He doesn't need the money, you know. We're both impossibly rich, the sole heirs of my family's massive fortune." Bragging distracted Mycroft from the fact that Sherlock wasn't the product of his parents, and yet somehow they had nearly ruined the boy.

Mycroft could see that Lestrade wasn't going to tell him no. Lestrade never told him no. Ever. He crossed the room and took Lestrade by the shoulders. The door was locked and the windows were blocked, so he felt free to kiss the Detective Inspector full and fierce and a little messily.

Lestrade resisted him for just a moment, but only a short moment. His arms wrapped around Mycroft gently, tugging on him almost desperately. When Lestrade's hand went up to Mycroft's cheek, Mycroft felt the piercing cold of Lestrade's wedding ring, and he pulled away.

"She's pregnant," Lestrade said, reading Mycroft's hesitation.

"So we wait," Mycroft said, and extracted himself from his lover. "I made my conditions quite clear. I've seen enough unhappy marriages and affairs destroy children."

Lestrade bowed his head. "I think there were many contributing factors to your brother's… condition."

Mycroft felt the ache in his chest, and it felt suffocating. "Yes well…" But he had nothing else to say, really.

Mycroft was with Lestrade when they saw Sherlock enter the flat with John Watson and his aluminium cane by his side. They were in a car across the street, and Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew he was there. Not that it mattered, but Mycroft knew he was going to have to take John Watson aside and make an ally of him. Or an enemy.

"You're not going to leave him be, are you?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft stared down at Lestrade's now naked hand and he let out a sigh. "Never."

"There's something about this army doctor."

Mycroft nodded quietly. "I suppose I'll have to have a chat with him later."

"Any chance I can distract you for a while?"

Mycroft tried to hide his smile, but did a poor job of it. Just like Lestrade, Mycroft couldn't tell the Detective Inspector no very often.

"I'm not saying I think he's guilty," Lestrade shouted, his voice echoing through their parlor. Mycroft stood by the mantle, just as his father used to do when his mother was angry. He had a glass of scotch in his hand, and he was staring down at the wedding ring he wore on his right hand. "I'm just saying that those children identified him, and you and I both know your brother is…"

Mycroft wasn't sure what made him crack the way he did. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the idea that children had pointed Sherlock out to be the bad guy. Maybe it was because Mycroft wasn't sure he could take hearing his husband call Sherlock his 'brother' one more time.

"I'm his father." The words sort of spilled out, and Mycroft, for a moment, wasn't sure he'd said them aloud.

He had, though, and judging by Lestrade's absolute silence, he knew that he'd shaken things up a bit. "What?" Lestrade's voice was thick and quiet.

Mycroft turned to face his husband who had fallen back onto their chaise. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his thumb, giving a thin, tense smile. "I'm Sherlock's father."

"Well that ain't bloody funny," Lestrade bit.

"Indeed it isn't," Mycroft acquiesced with a short nod. "It's never been, as you say, bloody funny. Watching the boy grow up with my psychotic, sociopathic mother and fat, drunken father wasn't funny. Knowing I'd been stupid one time in my life and produced a child is in no way amusing. Having to let him grow up his entire life, hating me isn't the least bit humorous. Having to watch him in secret, feeling like I've failed him his entire life, never being able to just tell him all the while knowing that even at nineteen I would have made a better parent for him isn't… _funny_."

"You're not joking, are you?" Lestrade asked. He rose, crossed the room and took his husband by the shoulders. "Mycroft? You're being serious?"

Mycroft pulled away from Lestrade's hands and finished off his drink. "You'll never find a scrap of evidence, I'm afraid. The power of money knows no bounds." Mycroft refreshed his drink, desperate to be drunk, because the drink was the only thing that allowed his mind to slow down a little. "I wanted to rule the world, and wouldn't be able to do that saddled with some prostitute's child. Mother didn't want a scandal, father just wanted mother to stop screaming. Sherlock had the simple misfortune of being born the way he was born." Mycroft took another swallow and smiled at his husband. "His name was originally Nikolas. He was Russian." Mycroft laughed now, and shook his head.

Lestrade sat there, his hand over his mouth, one leg crossed over his other knee. "My God," was the only coherent thing he came up with.

"He didn't do it, you know," Mycroft said. "He's being set up."

They say when you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes. Mycroft never expected to see the life of his son flash before his own eyes when he heard John Watson tell him that this was all his fault. The words stung, because they were true. Not just the current incident, but everything. Every bloody thing that had ever gone wrong in Sherlock's life had been Mycroft's doing. Sherlock's very existence was the fault of the man currently behind the British Government. Mycroft never realized the price he would pay for his power.

Mycroft would never be a man capable of nurturing a child, but my God what he'd done to that curly haired detective… Mycroft was surely going to burn in hell. A special kind of hell, reserved for him alone.

He couldn't go to the funeral. He couldn't bring himself to watch the coffin full of Sherlock's broken, battered body lower into the ground. Mycroft's heart was broken, and the only one who could know, was his husband. He felt like he was bleeding to death from the inside out, slowly, painfully. Nothing could take it away.

Lestrade went on holiday because he couldn't bear to be around his husband right then. Mycroft didn't speak a word for over a month. He regained his wits enough to keep the charges off of John Watson, and to do what he could to restore his reputation, but the damage was done. Nothing could change the media's version of the poor, unfortunate man who had no idea who he really was.

He visited John once or twice, and somehow the Army doctor had managed to forgive him. On some level, anyway. John was dying, too. He'd stopped eating, clearly wasn't sleeping. Mrs Hudson had taken to steeping marijuana in his tea just to get him to eat and rest. Mycroft had someone go into the flat and take away all of the guns, though it was likely they'd missed one or two.

He would never forgive himself, and even when his husband came home and they tried to move on, he hated himself a little. Lestrade hadn't even questioned Mycroft when he insisted Lestrade bring John Watson on as a consultant. He would carry the weight of the world on him now, until the day he died.

The day Sherlock came back to life, Mycroft drank himself into a stupor and it took three days for him to recover from the near-fatal alcohol poisoning. Sherlock had settled back at home with John, probably fucking well into the early morning hours each night. Mycroft had no doubt of that.

Lestrade couldn't understand why Mycroft wasn't happier, but the truth was, he could never be happy. Sherlock was never going to live an easy life. He was too clever, and too important to live a happy life, and Mycroft would still never forgive himself.

He finally found the bollocks to confront the younger detective at his home. His face was drawn as he walked into the messy kitchen. Sherlock was at his kitchen table, eyes glued to a microscope. He was twisting the black knob on the side just slightly, his eyebrows furrowed against the plastic eyepieces.

"There's scotch in the liquor cabinet," Sherlock said, his voice somewhat muffled by the metal device he was attached to.

Mycroft went a bit green at the thought of taking another drink anytime soon. "Thank you. No. I merely popped by to ensure you're adjusting well enough to your time back home." I love you. I'm sorry and I love you, and I'll never forgive myself, he said inside.

Sherlock looked up from whatever he was inspecting and quirked an eyebrow at Mycroft. "I'm well. Your concern is unnecessary."

"As usual, it's been a lovely visit. If you'll excuse me, I do have a government to run," Mycroft said in his usual, patient tone. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

He'd just made it to the door when Sherlock's deep baritone called out after him, "I've known since I was six. The very idea that mother could hide _all_ of the evidence is ridiculous."

Mycroft felt his face go pale and he froze, unable to turn around even though he heard the younger man come up behind him. "Sherlock…"

"Please don't act like a fool," Sherlock begged. "I need you to be Mycroft, because it's the only way I can tell you that I know. I've always known. It wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference if you had told me or not. It is what it is. I am, who I am, and it wouldn't have been different."

Mycroft's eyes were watery, but his face was blank when he finally turned to face Sherlock. He had a flash suddenly, of when Sherlock was just a tiny boy, his messy curls, his wide curious eyes, cheeks constantly bruised by his father's hand because Sherlock just couldn't stop breaking things apart to study them. Mycroft swallowed. "So what's the point? If it wouldn't have made a difference?"

"Because your husband is starting to hate you, and if you don't bloody forgive yourself, he's going to leave you. It wouldn't have made a difference, so grow up and get over it. I am who I am, Mycroft."

Mycroft gave a curt nod and reached for the door again. "You sound quite sure, Sherlock."

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock said flippantly. "I'm always sure, and I'm always right, and you bloody well know it. So grow up and go shag your husband and beg him to forgive you for acting like such a fool this entire time. John forgave me and I lied to him and left him for three years. My death nearly killed him, yet here we are. So suck it up. Now you know that I know and we can all move on with our lives."

Sherlock turned, marching back to the kitchen, leaving Mycroft standing there, for the first time in his life, truly shocked to the core. He was out in the hallway and in the street before he realized his feet were moving. Lestrade was in the car waiting for him, a small smile on his lips.

"How did it go?" he asked. He took Mycroft's hand and squeezed it.

Mycroft stared up at the window of 221B and saw, just for a moment, the flash of Sherlock's face and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled.


End file.
